


Ensuring a Painless Line of Succession

by lorenerd13



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: F/M, I dunno if I'd trust that lube either but I feel like it would sell like gangbusters, Incest, Kink Meme, Mind Control, PWP: porn with plot, Prompt Fill, Warcraft Kink Meme, magical mind fuck, mild bondage, noncon, questionably hate sex, the intersection of sex and politics you didn't want either, very unsubtle sexism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorenerd13/pseuds/lorenerd13
Summary: Getting what you want is as simple as leading the shortsighted to the conclusions you want them to draw. With a little nudge of magic, that is.Written for the Warcraft Kink Meme prompt asking for Muradin/Moira hatesex.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning for what could be construed as suicidal ideation.**
> 
>  
> 
> Anon who requested it, I hope this satisfies something of your prompt. Obviously it got turned a little inside-out thanks to you inspiring me. Moira's POV came surprisingly easy, considering how I pretty much loathe her. :P
> 
> Original prompt:  
> he thinks: magni would never forgive me, but if I can get another heir on her, one without dark iron blood...  
> she thinks: men are so easy.
> 
> unsafe/risk-of-impreg incesty dwarven goodness. up to anon whether moira knows his plan and takes precautions or lets it succeed  
> http://warcraftkink.livejournal.com/588.html?thread=90188#t90188

The trick to the successful casting of a mind control spell isn't brute force, it's priming the subject to think that it was their idea all along and then subtly guiding them along with your aims. Every day there are stories told in hushed whispers of the priesthood abusing their powers and taking advantage of those in their care, whether it's rumors of the crown prince of Stormwind throwing a whammy on some of his followers or the less provable tales of void ceremonies that end in orgies down in the twisted hallways of the Undercity.

All of this runs through Moira's consciousness as she gives her uncle the best death glare she can muster under the circumstances, which is to say that he has her tied spread-eagle to his bed and stuffed a gag in her mouth made of her braided hair after it was pulled out of its bun so she can't call for help. He'd think it utter nonsense if anyone suggested that she wants to be in this position. Stark naked, obviously helpless, and still the orchestrator of the encounter even if he'll never know. Even if the whole of the Alliance finds out he intended to get her with child, she'll have the last laugh: let upright, inflexible Muradin weather the storm of public opinion once it's known that by all evidence he voluntarily impregnated his niece. It would mean the end of the Council of Three Hammers once more, but not in the way she's been working toward. As in all things, she must move with caution to mitigate the worst fallout while attaining her goals.

"Magni, please understand why I'm doing this and forgive me," Muradin mutters as he takes off his pants. He does that odd wrist-shaking-while-pulling motion men do with their limp penises when they want to become erect as quickly as possible. She can't stifle the pang of missing Dagran and covers it with a muffled grunt that Muradin probably takes for an accusation. He takes up his monologue again, telling her how he regrets doing it but she'll see that it will make things better in the end.

Men are so stupidly easy to control.

If the Bronzebeard clan wanted a child with no Dark Iron blood so badly, they ought to have cast their votes for Moira. She's shown her ability to put aside her personal feelings on an issue for the benefit of all but it's only ever gained her their mistrust. They don't deserve her at her best. They will get their comeuppance, and deservedly, and they will be prosperous regardless because she's not heartless, she's driven and had trained from childhood for the pressures of leadership.

Muradin makes a small noise of dismay once he's turgid because Moira is very obviously not turned on by these doings. Duty requires a clear head, not blissed out lassitude.

Fortunately her uncle isn't unprepared. Under her observing today, he discharges his duty—as he sees it—admirably. Although he's clearly reluctant, he digs up a vial with a recognizable label whose contents very nearly make her snicker and choke on the spit pooling behind her gag. All-Purpose Lubricant Guaranteed to Excite and Smooth Your Way. She ought to make a mental note to introduce legislation requiring gnomish concoctions to display all of their ingredients, with or without percentages, on the label somewhere for the sake of safety. If this makes her pubic hair turn green, heads will roll. While she's contemplating the political ramifications, Muradin has slathered a good amount all over his head and shaft.

Does her uncle even have experience with the opposite sex? A considerate partner would at least try to ready her with some manual stimulation. _Something._

That lubricant had better have been magically infused. Next time, she'll have to include instructions on how to deal with ladyparts.

Without further apologies, he sinks himself into her slowly. It's uncomfortable, and that's an understatement. Instead of immediately turning to thrusting and grunting, he looks into her eyes and waits for her pained squint to relax slightly. And, oh, blessings of the Light upon that gnomish genius for being true to their word—it must have been a woman who invented the stuff because when it starts to work, she can feel it. She can slow her breathing and blink away tears from the pain that's now fading. Now her breath hitches because, holy taurens, _it works_ and she wants this in the worst way.

She clenches that set of muscles that shifts everything internally and grips a cock noticeably. Muradin's jaw drops open in pleasure and he can no longer meet her eyes but he speeds up the pace of his thrusting. He even cuts off a low moan midway. Watching him self-flagellate somewhat makes up for the less savory aspects of the experience. She shifts her hips back and forth with what little wiggle room the cords snugged around her ankles and wrists allow her to encourage him further.

It really has been too long since Moira's been well and truly fucked silly, though this barely qualifies. Muradin just doesn't have the sadistic touch that Dagran applied so well to multiple parts of her anatomy. Sadly, it's this or picking a Bronzebeard clansman for consort, and the Dark Irons won't stand for that without being in on the reasoning behind such a maneuver. And that won't do; success requires that no one but she know the truth.

Plus one must keep up appearances. She makes a sound around the gag that's more reminiscent of a horse nickering than a genuine attempt at parsable language.

"This is for the future of our clan, you silly woman," Muradin replies as if she'd made a cogent argument.

Moira really must remember to leave out a large handkerchief or something when she's preparing the room next time because she's learning, to her sorrow, that being gagged with her own hair is making her gag reflex angry. Next time. It hardly bears thinking about if she doesn't want to lose her resolve, confess everything, and self-immolate to expiate the guilt. This might very well take _dozens_ of attempts. It's utterly staggering what lengths she must go to for even the least shreds of respect in the political arena, let alone building towards a better future for the clans as a whole.

Big picture thinking got her into this.

Muradin's rhythm becomes erratic and then he descends into a series of shuddering spasms before he's spent and breathing hard. He drapes himself across her, his skin clammy with sweat wherever it touches hers.

A golden opportunity. First, she spits out the hair-gag; in his haste, Muradin had failed to pin it in place. She very precisely aligns her hands a foot to each side of his head, straining against her bonds and cautious not to tip him off via tensing the wrong muscles. Asking questions now or asking questions later is guaranteed to upset the delicate balance of spellwork she's already invested. It will require continued applications at just the right time, hidden from the analytical portion of the mind and he'll never think to question why she wouldn't bring the sob story to the immediate attention of the whole community.

Like how a little after he's spent himself and rolls off her, gasping and sweaty and limp. In a moment, he'll untie her and apologize more and she'll put her hands on his head to reiterate the suggestions and make them as strong as commands. Of course it won't be seamless; no application of this spell can be. But if a little emotional instability in a member of the Council of Three Hammers is the price they have to pay for peace, then so be it.


End file.
